


Wings in blazing backdraft

by orphan_account



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Dubious Consent, Kneeling, M/M, Mating Bond, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Power Dynamics, Scenting, Trope Subversion/Inversion, christ help me, even if his main opponent is his own damn dynamic and body, he's gonna fight for his right to bodily autonomy buddy, lmao I can't with motorsports, why make things easy when you can burn the world down getting there on hard mode
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-29 18:56:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12091302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It's not the worst way to spend a first heat -- not that knowing that would've been much comfort to Sebastian in the moment. It's not even the worst way he'll spend a heat over the course of his life -- not that Sebastian has any way of knowing that yet.It passes in two days, and after the first sixteen hours, he's even able to take a shower and make his way back to bed. It's two days of testing on new tires that gets sacrificed this time -- unacceptable, as far as Sebastian's concerned. His father frowns when Sebastian explains his worry, his desire to keep his heats from interfering with his racing, but he doesn't say anything other than "OK, Sebastian," and makes an appointment with Dr. Pfleger for the next Monday.--Sebastian Vettel will become a world-class race-car driver, his own body be damned.





	Wings in blazing backdraft

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the poem "Victory" by Adrienne Rich.
> 
> More tags, particularly as characters get introduced, will be added -- I went ahead and included the two major relationships that will be featured in the future, but I'm adding characters as individuals as they appear. More detailed content warnings are in end notes. I have no idea what I'm goddamn doing, y'all, my affection for this fandom has gotten completely out of hand in such a short period of time. This isn't even my trope, Seb's not even my number one racing child, and yet here we are right now, me writing this nonsense and you reading it.
> 
> This is largely un-beta'd, although I'm trying to edit as I go along. Feedback is always appreciated.

Sebastian is eleven years old when he wakes up from a dream more vivid than anything else he's experienced in his otherwise relatively short life.

He remembers the whole thing, start to end. He remembers the sounds, the smells, the way the air -- humid, but cold, like a rainy February that soaks into your bones -- had sat on his skin. He wakes up covered in sweat, slick where he shouldn't be, and afraid.

It takes him a full week to figure out how to even ask anyone about what's happened, another week on top of that to psych himself up to the task of actually doing it.

His mother is making breakfast when Sebastian figures out how to put enough words together to start a conversation. He sees her pause, her mouth flattening to a thin, taught line before she catches herself enough to turn away.

"Sorry," comes tumbling out of Sebastian's mouth, entirely out of his control, and his face heats with the shame of it. "It's fine, it was just a stupid dream. I don't know why I even asked."

"No," she sighs, turning towards him even as she flicks the gas burner to low, face unclenching and veering towards something more motherly, more soft. "It's fine, darling -- I wouldn't want you to feel like you couldn't ask. You know about... you know how each person is different, yes? They've taught you in school, and we've even spoken about it -- like when you wanted to know if it was OK if Christopher kissed you last year?"

Sebastian wants to cringe at the memory, but instead focuses on trying to suppress the blush that floods his face, drops his eyes to his empty plate. "Yes mama."

"Well, on top of your dynamic genotype, there's also -- some people believe in true compatibility, as in. Well. Soulmates, I suppose, for lack of a better term. You know what I'm talking about?" she asks, moving to crouch by where Sebastian's seated, placing one hand in a fashion Sebastian imagines is supposed to be soothing on his knee which is jiggling along nervously well beyond any kind of voluntary control.

He nods, even though it's only half-true. He knows what soulmates are _supposed_ to be, thanks to movies, to romances in the novels and the plays they're meant to be studying in school. He also knows what people say crudely about poor omegas being under the total, helpless sway of their soul-bonded alphas, at least in the crush of sweaty locker rooms where boys speak less in truth and more in fervent fantasy. He knows that they're building their own mythologies, he understands that half of what he hears just simply _can't_ be true, but it's enough to make him squirm, to make him uncomfortable with the implications.

His father is an omega, as are both his uncles and his grandfather; his mother is a beta, but his mother's father was an omega as well. There's only so much hope he can have in the face of likely genetics. There's only so much room for doubt when he wakes up half the mornings these days wet with far more than sweat between his legs.

"The truth is," his mother continues so gently it almost feels like an insult. "There's no science to prove the idea of soulmates. Most of the old wives' tales about those sorts of things can just as easily be explained by preferences -- some smells, some pheromone profiles, are just going to be more appealing to you; unless you're a beta and can't really smell anything at all. But there's no science out there that's going to agree that there's one correct person for you out of all other people, one true mate. You're of an age where your body is learning how it's going to be for the rest of its life, Sebastian. Dreams like that are part of the road-map it's building for you, you know?"

"I know," Sebastian answers, shame and petulance clawing at each others' faces inside of his heart. His mother strokes his knee absently, allowing his mind to chew over what she's said. Sebastian has a million more questions, ones he probably needs to be asking his dad as much as it embarrasses him to even consider, but the Herculean effort it took to even broach the subject keeps him anchored here to this moment with her.

"I don't think I'm a beta," is what he finally manages to mumble, letting his face collapse into his hands.

" _Ach meiner Mausbärchen, das haben wir schon bemerkt_ ," she laughs, pressing a kiss into his hair. Sebastian heart leaps into his throat and stays there even as she soothes him as best as she's able to. "It's not the end of the world, it just means more responsibility."

Sebastian doesn't want to have responsibilities, he just wants to race without people second-guessing him for the things in his life he can't change. He knows better than to say that, though, and leans into where his mama's fingers press into his fringe.

"Come on, Sebastian, everything will seem simpler after breakfast, no?" She hums into his hair, and Sebastian finds himself nodding, even as he scrubs his face into his shirtsleeves to get rid of whatever traitorous moisture might've escaped onto his face while he was allowed the luxury of feeling sorry for himself. He even manages to look his mother in the eye and manage a watery smile. She rocks back onto her heels, and taps him under the chin, smiling. "There's my boy."

"I'm sorry," he says again as she gathers up the plates to dish out breakfast.

"Don't be," she shrugs. "Growing up happens at the worst times."

It might only be a small allowance, all things considered, but it's one Sebastian remains grateful for.

##  -

Sebastian goes into heat for the first time about half a year after that.

It is _miserable_.

He's lucky, it's a weekend, and the only thing that gets spoiled by it is track time. He can't imagine what would've happened if he'd been at school. Sebastian feels a fresh wave of shivering nervousness and claustrophobic anxiety ripple through him as he pants against the bathroom door at the idea of this happening during a race. He knows he's late, he knows he should _say_ something, to someone, but his briefs and his pajama pants are soaking wet and everything, every last inch of skin, every hair follicle on his body, feels like it's on fire. He's in a closed, windowless room that's barely six foot by six foot, and he can feel the air move across his skin from under the gap in the door when his father comes to stand in front of the bathroom looking for him.

"Sebastian -- Heike, are you sure he isn't downstairs? Sebastian, are you in there?"

The lights are off, he understands his father's confusion, but Sebastian's breathing feels so loud, he almost laughs at the question. He lets his head drop against the door.

"Sebastian," his father tries again. "C'mon, open up, we're going to be late picking up your new tires at this rate, what's the matter?"

"I'm sick," Sebastian gets out despite the lump in his throat, his tonsils feeling twice their normal size.

His voice cracks and warps in ways he'd be mortified by if he had shame to spare, but shame is suddenly something in short supply. The toilet seat has a cover, a simple shag pile thing that's nothing but a square of threadbare carpeting; Sebastian's hugging the cool porcelain of the toilet base, the only thing that feels good against his sweaty skin, but rubbing his face against the cover mindlessly is edging from soothing to something more insidious, something both syrupy and sparking. He needs -- he needs his dad to go away. He needs something else, something _more_ on his skin --

"Seb, I'm opening the door," his father announces grimly.

"No," Sebastian tries to say, but the word slides south of anything intelligible as his father manages to get the door half of the way open before wedging it against where Sebastian tried to roll up the bathmat under the gap as a door-jam.

The light from the hallway makes Sebastian hiss, everything too bright to his eyes. He flinches back trying to cover his face. He doesn't have the will or the energy to move away from the palm his father places on his forehead, and then his chest.

"You're a mess," his father sighs. "You should've felt sick yesterday at the very least."

"I was sneezing, I thought -- I thought --"

"Shh, it's fine," he interrupts, pushing the matted, wet fringe of Sebastian's hair back from where it's sticking to his forehead and dragging into his eyes, tucking it behind his ears. "I can give you some pills the doctor gives me, and I have an infusion Britta by your grandmother's house makes for me. There are other ways to deal with this, you can chose them next time if you'd like, but what I have will be enough this time."

Sebastian wants to cry. He doesn't want pills. He doesn't want anything he really has a name for, but he's dreamed of things that he doesn't have names for. He's so hot and his skin feels so tender, like a fresh bruise covering his whole frame.

He's not sure how much time passes before the door opens again and his father's there, pushing bitter-tasting tablets -- powder crumbling from the edges where he's cut them in half -- down his throat, pouring water in after them with almost no preamble. Sebastian sputters before swallowing, the cool water soothing his throat.

"Your mother is making the tea, I'll bring you blankets and a pillow -- you can stay in here. I'll make sure your sisters know not to come in."

Sebastian tries to nod, but isn't sure he manages to. Time slows in parts, speeds up and skips past others -- the pills make him drowsy, the tea tastes terrible but makes it so his skin isn't crawling at every simple touch. He only ruts against the floor once, early on he thinks. It's mindless and before the tea really does it's job probably. It just adds to the mess of his pants, and Sebastian doesn't really let himself think about it too long, can't really think about it too long with the medicine in his veins making his eyes slip shut and sleep come too easy.

It's not the worst way to spend a first heat -- not that knowing that would've been much comfort to Sebastian in the moment. It's not even the worst way he'll spend a heat over the course of his life -- not that Sebastian has any way of knowing that yet.

##  -

It passes in two days, and after the first sixteen hours, he's even able to take a shower and make his way back to bed. It's two days of testing on new tires that gets sacrificed this time -- unacceptable, as far as Sebastian's concerned. His father frowns when Sebastian explains his worry, his desire to keep his heats from interfering with his racing, but he doesn't say anything other than "OK, Sebastian," and makes an appointment with Dr. Pfleger for the next Monday.

Dr. Pfleger goes over every possible combination of options with Sebastian, after explaining that stopping his heats indefinitely is not only illegal in most countries but damaging during puberty, and there aren't any that are strictly speaking to Sebastian's _liking_ but there are ways, he thinks, to maybe bend the rules a little and making the treatment options work for him. He leaves with three prescriptions that are to be filled with two month-long doses at a time, and Sebastian begins timing his heats with meticulous precision, skipping doses to stock-pile pills for karting season. He uses the internet, informs himself, and creates a plan.

It's a good plan, or so he tells himself when it works and he doesn't have to deal with heats while racing. It seems like the best plan when he still runs consecutive active doses (while skipping the green placebo pills), gets accepted into the Red Bull Junior Racing Team, and places third in the Monaco Kart Cup the same year.

Everyone assumes so much about him, that he's going to be a generational talent, that he's got the stuff -- the _grit_ he knows they mean, the drive, the dedication -- of a real open-wheel racer. He hears the praise, and he knows they mean it with a silent "in spite." Herr Doktor Professor Helmut Marko taking on Vettel (in spite of him not being an alpha genotype). So far the doctors in Milton Keynes have just assumed he's a beta since genotype blood testing for employment or academic entrance exams is still illegal in the EU. And it hasn't really been a topic of discussion, although Sebastian can't help but bristle any time an engineer or coach or trainer includes some kind of anecdotal reference to the fact that more rational genotypes have had successful racing careers. Despite being better suited to diplomacy and negotiation and academics, Sebastian knows, but for every forty semi-successful alpha money-seaters, you have the Niki Laudas, the Alain Prosts. Sebastian also knows the numbers on the declared alphas occupying current F1 seats. Hell, Sebastian knows the numbers on the percentage of declared alphas occupying F1 seats over the last fifteen years. To call it overwhelming wouldn't quite do it justice; the number of declared omegas, by contrast, non-existent.

It doesn't get talked about with the Red Bull people, it doesn't even really get talked about at home -- not when Sebastian can help it. His dad sits him down once, after he finally wins the Monaco Kart Cup, after Red Bull has started to take serious interest in him, after his first few non-local sponsorships are in the process of being negotiated. He does it kindly, in a movie theater, while Sebastian is still nibbling absently on slightly-stale popcorn during the rolling credits of _Shrek_.

"Most decent team principals are omegas, you know," he starts, essentially apropos of nothing. "It takes a cooler head, a firm hand, and sharp wits to coordinate two desperately competitive men into playing nicely enough to win a team a Constructor's Trophy."

Sebastian thinks of dragons, of scrooge princes, of the different forms true love can take in one's life -- girls, fast cars, glory, maybe glory above all -- and shrugs. "My head's not all that cool when I'm racing, papa, you know that."

Sebastian grins for good measure, remembering how mad he'd gotten last weekend when Christopher managed to pit a full three seconds faster than him, all because he'd practiced with his team until two in the morning the night before the race.

"Sometimes I wonder if it's just because you don't want it to be, Sebastian," his father sighs. "That you chose anger."

"You think I chose to get angry when I race?" Sebastian asks, startled.

"I think maybe," his father clarifies. "You behave like you're trying to prove someone wrong. Not like you honestly feel you should."

"I don't even know what that's supposed to mean," Sebastian scoffs, staring at the floor and scrubbing at a sticky patch of congealed soda syrup with the corner of his tennis shoe.

"Yes you do, Sebastian, come on -- consider it a moment."

And Sebastian does -- or at least, Sebastian tries to. He's not sure there are two separate things for him, between winning races and proving people wrong. He's also not sure that he gets _angry_ trying to prove people wrong; Sebastian lingers on a memory of the way driving feels when it slips a little out of conscious control, on the vicious, triumphant joy of a feint that produces slick overtaking opportunity around the inside of a turn. Those feelings aren't angry, not exactly -- although there's an edge there that makes it something more complex than simple joy.

He tries to focus on whether or not that edge actually feels good to him, or if it's simply a side-effect of wanting a goal he thinks other people are trying to keep away from him because of who he is -- _what_ he is. Sebastian isn't sure there are two separate things for him, the sickness of racing versus the side-effects of a desperate need to prove people wrong. He's not sure he has the words to articulate any of that clearly, not sure if telling his father the fact he can't separate the two things makes him nervous would be proving him right or wrong in his assessment of Sebastian's mental status. He's pretty sure he wants to prove his father wrong.

The irony of that strikes him suddenly, clear as a bell, and Sebastian can't stop himself from giggling.

"What?" His father asks, mouth twisting up into a grin in response to Sebastian's helpless laughter.

"I want to prove you wrong about my always wanting to prove other people wrong," Sebastian manages, wiping his eyes once the initial fit of mirth calms a little.

"Oh God," his father commiserates, groaning. "It's serious then, this compulsion of yours."

"It's definitely something I feel, like a reflex," Sebastian says, sniffling. "It's also not that angry, you know? More -- " Like a yawning void. Like something underneath his skin, almost like the itch he doesn't let himself feel until the off-season that precedes his heats like clockwork. " -- hungry? Maybe? Either way, I'm pretty sure it's a natural sort of feeling."

"Is that so?"

"You should know better than most," Sebastian knocks his shoulder into his father's on his way to standing, grabbing the empty popcorn tub to toss into the trash. "The dangers of stereotyping how omegas respond to situations."

That gets a laugh out of his papa, a smaller victory -- though a victory nevertheless; the tone of it pausing Sebastian's scramble to the toilets for a moment, his mind filled with a sudden need to look for signs of sadness, bitterness on his father's face. Sebastian sees nothing out of the ordinary, at least not that he can identify, and less the passing concern wash over him and right out of mind.

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warnings: In this universe, heats occur around puberty, and puberty is a thing that occurs in most cases before the age of consent (Sebastian is around 11-12 years old here). There's nothing particularly explicit that occurs during Sebastian's first heat, but mentions of frottage/orgasm are there while said character is underage. If there's anything else you'd like me to tag for in this chapter that I've failed to do, by all means -- drop me a line and I'll add it.


End file.
